The Hell Screen (16 page)

When he passed Konoe Avenue, he glanced down it toward the imperial flags flying over the prison. The capital had two of these, just as it had two city administrations and two markets. The division of the capital into an eastern or left half and a western or right half, with Suzaku Avenue the central dividing line, had created two worlds, for the two halves could not be more different. The eastern city was crowded, bustling, affluent, and mostly law-abiding; the western half had sunk into a rapid decline and now was inhabited mostly by the poor and desperate. The prison on this side of town was always crowded and the court docket full.

Nagaoka’s brother was in the other prison, but was suffering, no doubt, the same daily beatings until he signed his confession. Akitada’s stomach twisted at the thought of it and he drew up his shoulders with a shiver.

The artist’s studio lay in the westernmost quarter of the city. He walked quickly to keep warm in the cold air, tucking his chin into the collar of his quilted robe. But there was little he could do to keep his ears warm, and they began to hurt unpleasantly.

Once there had been fine private homes in large gardens here, but they had fallen into ruin or burned to the ground. The “good people” had moved away to the other side of town, leaving behind a tangled wilderness. Squatters occupied the empty spaces now, and here and there thin spirals of smoke rose from huts and abandoned pavilions.

Poorly dressed people gave him a wide berth after a brief glance at his silk robe and black hat. He was one of the “good people,” an oddity like a piece of brocade among hemp, or—as he soon realized when he could not get close enough to anyone to ask for directions—a fish out of water.

He began to regret his good clothing even more when he attracted a following of about six or seven ragged young men who seemed to wait for him to turn down one of the narrow side streets where there would be no witnesses to a quick robbery.

He got directions eventually from a laborer carrying a load of roof tiles on his back, no doubt salvage from another abandoned villa. He gave them grudgingly enough, along with an astonished glance at Akitada’s formal silk robe. The farther Akitada walked, the more uneasy he became. His clothes shamed him among the poor and ragged creatures who inhabited the makeshift shacks by the side of the weed-grown and rutted roads. When his surroundings became more densely populated, the character of the quarter became even worse. Workers’ tenements crowded together, interspersed with poor shops and leaning stalls. Now and then he passed a shrine or small temple, and once a somewhat more substantial house which bore the insignia of the local warden, but in most blocks cheap wine shops alternated with eateries stinking of rancid fish oil and rotted vegetables.

The Temple of Boundless Mercy was a surprise when he finally reached it. It occupied a large area and was dominated by a towering main hall and a three-story pagoda. These and other, smaller buildings stood inside a vast courtyard surrounded by the remnants of tall plaster walls which had lost most of their plaster and had collapsed altogether in some sections. The temple grounds lay in a haze of thin gray smoke and, from what he could see through the gaping holes in the wall, appeared to be a sort of local market.

He stopped to look at the temple, wondering how to find the painter’s house, when he felt a violent push to his back and stumbled forward. Hands pulled at his sash and felt his sleeves. Reacting by instinct, he whirled, his fists clenched and lashing out at his attackers. His right made sharp contact with a body. There was a yelp, and a slight figure scurried away. But he had no time to waste on that one, for he had grabbed hold of a second attacker with his left and flung him face down on the ground. Falling on his prostrate opponent with his knees, he knocked the breath out of him and caught the flailing hands by the wrists, pinning them into the dirt. His prisoner screamed in a high, thin voice, and Akitada realized that he had caught a youngster, about fourteen or fifteen years old. Pickpockets, he thought disgustedly, and shifted his knees from the boy’s back, wondering what to do with his captive.

The answer became quickly obvious. A small hostile crowd gathered around him. Kneeling on the street, Akitada saw their feet and legs first, mostly naked or in ragged straw sandals, except for one pair of massive leather boots right before his eyes. Large as the boots were, the wearer had had to cut them open to make room for some enormous dirty toes. Akitada’s eyes traveled upward and found that their owner matched them in size and uncleanliness. A bearded giant glared down at him. Worse, on either side of him stood no fewer than ten or fifteen burly, hostile males. Akitada swallowed. The bearded giant alone easily outweighed him by a third.

“Let him go!” the giant growled down to him.

Akitada rose to his feet but jerked the youngster up with him, his fist firmly grasping the boy’s flimsy shirt by the neck. The young thief had stopped wailing and struggling and was awaiting the outcome of the confrontation with renewed confidence.

At eye level, or near eye level, for the big man was almost a head taller than Akitada, the bearded giant did not improve. The part of his face which was not covered by the unkempt bristly beard was badly pockmarked, and a fleshy nose and thick lips did nothing for his appearance. They eyed each other in mutual disgust for a moment; then Akitada said matter-of-factly, “This boy and his companion tried to steal from me. I’d like a word with his father if you can tell me where he lives.”

The big man’s jaw dropped a little, but he recovered quickly. “I said to let him go. It’s none of your business. We don’t need your kind here, giving our kids a bad name, calling them thieves.” The others muttered their agreement and shuffled up a little more closely.

Akitada pushed the boy forward without loosening his grip. “You claim to care about your children. Open your eyes!” he challenged the big man. “Look at him! Today he tried to grab a few coppers from my sash, but in another year or two he’ll be pulling knives on helpless old men and women. Do you want him to turn to murder or be killed himself ? How many of your boys are running wild now? How many of your sons end up dead or in chains?”

The other men’s muttering turned angry, but the big man stared at the youngster, and Akitada could see his conviction waver. “Kinjiro’s a good kid, one of eight,” the man said defensively. “I know his folks. They’re poor like the rest of us. His father’s been sick and his mother’s just had another kid. Maybe he just bumped into you. Hey, Kinjiro? Did you try to take the gentleman’s money?”

The boy burst into tears and sobbed explanations in a dialect which Akitada could not make out. But as the big man listened, his face lengthened. When the boy stopped with a sniffle and a swipe at his running nose, he put a big paw on the thin shoulder for a moment. “All right,” he said. “Don’t worry! I’ll take care of it. You go home now.” He looked at Akitada. “You can let him go. I’m Hayata, the warden of this quarter, and I’ll go talk to them. The new babe died this morning and they have no money for a funeral.”

“Oh.” Akitada released the boy instantly. “I am sorry,” he said, helpless in the face of such sadness and so extreme a want. His hand went to his sash for money, but he changed his mind. He had no proof if what he had been told was true or merely a trick to get his money.

The bearded giant nodded to the youngster. “Off you go! And don’t ever let me catch you and Yoshi again.” Then he waved away the other men, who dispersed quickly. When they were alone, he gestured to Akitada’s clothes and remarked, “It is easy to see that this is not your kind of place, sir. Best go home now.” Having said this, he turned and walked quickly after the boy.

The message was clear: he was not welcome. Angered by this reception into stubborn persistence, Akitada brushed off his robe and crossed the street to the temple.

He entered through the sagging gateway and wandered about the vast courtyard filled with people gathered around open fires or haggling with vendors. Children tumbled about among the adults, shouting and chasing each other. Near one of the fires, ragged men sat on the ground gambling with dice. On the temple steps, a storyteller held a group of gaping adults and children spellbound. And everywhere men and women were selling things: cheap wine, soup, amulets, vegetables, old clothes, chipped utensils, and medicinal drafts, potions, and balms for every imaginable ailment. And ailments there appeared to be many. One man was missing an eye, another hobbled on a crutch, one foot hanging mangled and deformed, while near the storyteller an old crone sat coughing weakly into a bloodstained rag.

In spite of these surroundings, Akitada became aware of a ravenous hunger. Following an appetizing smell, he made his way through a group of poor people, who fell back from him in silent awe, and found a young woman, cleaner than the rest, stirring a large pot of soup over a small fire. He held out some coppers, and she ladled a generous helping into an earthenware bowl.

Warming his cold hands on the bowl, Akitada wished he could do the same for his ears. The soup appeared to consist mostly of assorted vegetables and beans. He took a cautious swallow. It was as good as it smelled. He thought he could make out turnip and cabbage, but there was another leafy vegetable, deep green, which had a slightly bitter but pleasant flavor. He emptied the bowl quickly and asked for another. The woman smiled at him this time and watched him eat. He asked her what the green vegetable was. Dock, she said. It was plentiful hereabouts, especially in the old monks’ burial grounds behind the temple.

Akitada choked down the last bite and looked where she pointed. In a nearby open area some six or seven small boys were gathered near leaning wooden tablets where one of them was spinning a top. Akitada had played with tops himself as a youngster, and smiled. The boy with the top looked to be about five or six and was most adept. His top spun and danced, flew through the air, and returned. He made it dart in and out between his friends and kept it moving precisely where he wanted it.

Akitada chuckled. “He’s good, that little one,” he said.

The woman said proudly, “He’s my son. He loves his top. There’s not much else he can be good at, poor boy.”

Akitada handed back his empty bowl and said, “What do you mean? He looks like a fine boy.”

She cast a glance toward the children, and he saw that tears welled up in her eyes. “A fine cripple,” she said bitterly.

Stunned by her words, Akitada looked again and saw now that the small boy was not merely holding his right arm close to his body but seemed to lack his forearm altogether. The right arm ended just below the elbow. Among his people, who relied on the skill and strength of their hands to make a living, he would be unable to support himself by any useful trade and become dependent on alms tossed him by the more fortunate. This part of the city was full of crippled beggars sitting at street corners and on the steps of temples with their begging bowls. Any number of accidents could cut short a productive life and reduce a man to this sort of misery. But this was only a child.

Suddenly an unpleasant thought arose in his mind. Saburo had warned him that this temple had an unsavory reputation based on some gruesome local superstitions. It was said to be inhabited by flesh-eating demons who roamed its grounds after dark to attack unwary sinners on their way home from a debauch. The occasional discovery of a dismembered body testified to the truth of such stones, which were additionally embroidered by the warning that the unhappy souls of the dead had turned into hungry ghosts, forced to live near the temple, feeding on excrement and garbage while wailing for food. Akitada glanced around him with a shudder. Some of these poor living creatures looked hungry enough to be ghosts themselves.

To still such imaginary horrors, he asked the mother what had happened to the child.

“An accident, foolish boy. He won’t tell. A kind man brought him home. He said he found him by the road, bleeding, his severed arm gone, and a gold coin clutched in his other hand. Lucky this man found him and stopped the bleeding. He thinks my son saw the piece of gold in the road and was snatching it up just when a cartwheel caught his arm. Foolish child!” She sniffled and wiped her eyes.

“A terrible accident,” Akitada said sympathetically. “What will you do about his future?”

She cheered up a little. “Oh, he’ll be a monk. This same good person who found him got him a place at one of the big temples outside the city. May the Buddha bless him forever! It was a great relief to me.”

Akitada looked at the boy again, the young face rosy-cheeked in the cold air, teeth glistening as he burst into triumphant laughter at performing a skillful trick. So kindness was not dead in this slum. Perhaps it was even more alive here than among the wealthy—an irony when the need here was so much greater and the resources so pitifully slender. And Akitada admitted grudgingly to himself that for once the monks were performing a useful and generous act in taking in this poor child.